


Men Don't Cut

by SlytherinPrince67



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Co-Dependance, Depression, Self Harm, Suicidal Dean, Suicide Attempt, depressed!Dean
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-18
Updated: 2015-01-18
Packaged: 2018-03-08 02:40:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,084
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3192209
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SlytherinPrince67/pseuds/SlytherinPrince67
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is the story of a boy, a strong boy, with scars on his wrists. When John finds out he drops Dean off with Bobby, having no idea what to do, when Dean realises that if he continues being sick then he won't be able to stay with Sammy he pretends he's okay...but he's not. Will Dean ever get better or will he stay like this until he dies...before his time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Men Don't Cut

Men did not cut.

Dean had been taught at a young age that he was to be a man, and he was taught at an older yet still young age that men did not cut. He wasn’t sure when it started, he wasn’t sure when that empty void started to grow into a massive black hole right beside his heart engulfing him, swallowing him, dragging him down into the murky waters, but he did know that once it started it didn’t stop. John didn’t talk about it, ignored it, Dean stopped trying to get help. He stopped expecting his father to help him, to save him from his demons. Dean learnt at a young age that if he wanted something done, he had to do it himself. If he wanted Sammy to go to school with a full stomach he had to make him breakfast. If he wanted for himself and Sammy to have clean clothes he had to wash them. He didn’t blame his father; he couldn’t blame his father, after all John didn’t know how to fix this. He didn’t know what to do, hell, Bobby didn’t even know what to do about Dean. So Dean ignored it too, he pretended he was fine, he flirted with girls and acted like a whore. He flashed cheeky grins at irritated teachers and acted like he didn’t give a fuck. He didn’t do his homework and he got detention so he had something to do other than question what he was doing, why he was bothering. Sam didn’t notice, but Dean didn’t expect him to.

The first time John caught his eldest son, his Dean with a razor to his wrist he didn’t know what to do. For a good few seconds he just starred at Dean, he starred at his eldest, his bravest; his boldest. Dean was the kind of hunter who didn’t understand fear or limits, he understood orders and for that John was grateful. He had wished that Sam would follow his elder brother’s path, but it seemed all was not as it had once appeared. Dean didn’t scratch any words into his freckled skin as John had heard other kids did, instead they were just fast clean swipes as if Dean was a monster that needed hunting but he just couldn’t do it. John watched as the blood dripped down his eldest sons arm but perhaps the worst part, the very worst part, was that Dean was _smiling._ Dean had always been a happy child, a good boy, always laughing and grinning, eager to learn how to shoot that and how to slash with the right precision and strength. Dean had always been the perfect son, and yet here sat Dean on the edge of a bathtub slashed a silver razor across his arm. John was suddenly rushed forward, snatching the razor out of his sons hand and looking him dead in the eye. Dean had always had bright energetic green eyes; they had always been so full of love, life and light. When John Winchester really looked at his son that night though, perhaps for the first time since his darling Mary’s death, he saw nothing. They were empty, they were dead; Dean didn’t yell, not in shock or in anger, he just looked at his dad with pleading eyes. Eyes that begged for help eyes that begged a broken man for redemption, for help. John had always trusted his own judgement, he had always been so _sure_ of himself, but he did not know how to help his son. He did not know what to say, what to do. He waved the razor in the air, “This stops.” He ordered; Dean blinked. John narrowed his eyes and Dean nodded. It was a lie. John starred out the door and could see Sammy looking in, and he looked down at Dean. Dean didn’t wait for the order, didn’t wait for further explanation, he just got up, shut the door and went to pick up his eleven year old brother. “Hey Sammy, what cha doing?” he asked and Sammy began to talk. John threw the razor in the bin before seating in the toilet seat, and dropped his head into his hands. He could hear Sam laughing, and knew that what had just transpired would be forgotten. Dean would pull down his sleeve, the blood would be drained by his shirt, and the shirt would be left in the motel room. Sam would be none the wiser, and Dean would pretend it hadn’t happened. Dean would act like it didn’t matter, like _he_ didn’t matter and John, John didn’t know what to do about it. Monsters he could deal with, heck he could take on any force of nature that came their way, but how did he save his eldest son from himself?

Dean was dropped off at Bobby’s. Bobby and John had fought about it, it seemed like hours to Dean but it was probably just a few minutes. Usually Dean wouldn’t mind, his Dad had a job and Dean understood that but he took Sam. He took Sam and Dean starred out the window at his twelve year old brother, they had never done this before. He could hear his father hissing and Bobby practically growling at his father, “ _he needs you John, not a therapist. He needs his bloody father!” “I can’t trust him to take him with me; I can’t trust him with Sammy!”_ Dean felt his whole soul crumble at that. He’d never put Sammy at risk. He’d never hurt Sammy.

He walked through the door, eyes watering with tears. He didn’t say a damned word, not one, he just looked at his father with dead eyes, he sent a tiny smile, for a second John just starred then he watched Dean run. Dean ran outside, and pulled the impala’s door open. “Dean!” John yelled but Dean already had hold of Sam. Sam was confused, but he wasn’t stupid. “Sammy” Dean whispered and Sam knew Dean needed him, so Sam clung to him. “Don’t go, please, I’ll be good, I’ll stop making friends, I’ll…” Sam began to cry and Dean shook his head. “No Sammy, you make friends. Make tons and tons of friend, and get straight A’s, and don’t you dare cut your hair while I’m away okay?” Sam nodded, tears falling and Dean just hugged him tight. “I’m not like Dad. This isn’t my choice. I’d never leave you.” Dean was whispering, broken and scared. Sam nodded, John pulled Dean away but it was Sam that clung to his brother. John tried to get Sam off of him but Sam just struggled, “Go away!” he yelled, trying to cling to Dean. “I don’t want you!” Sam cried, desperately trying not to let go of Dean. If he let go now he’d lose him, he wasn’t a stupid boy. He’d seen the scars and he’d asked the older kids at his school, he knew what they were and maybe John would leave his brother but he wouldn’t. They couldn’t make him. “Sammy, it’s okay” Dean said, and suddenly all sadness was gone. Sam hated how he could do that, just turn it off and act like he was perfectly okay. “It’s not! He leaves and he leaves, and you’re not supposed to!” Sam was thrashing, he didn’t want to go; he didn’t want to lose Dean. Bobby walked out and saw Dean, he watched as Dean dropped to one knee and took Sam’s hand. “It’s just a little while, I’m sick Sammy” Sam shook his head. Dean wasn’t sick, John had done this. “And Bobby’s going to help me get better; he’s going to find people who are going to help me Sammy” Sam shook his head, Dean took his hand and smiled. “And then when I’m better Dad’s gonna pick me up again, and then you won’t ever get rid of me again” Sam hugged his brother’s shoulders. “You promise?” He whispered. Dean nodded with a small smile, “Promise, Bitch” Sam laughed. “Jerk.”

 It was when Sam was gone that everything went to shit.

Dean stopped caring. Dean just _stopped._ He didn’t want to eat, he didn’t want to get help, he lied to the therapist, and if he wasn’t lying he wasn’t talking. The cuts were getting deeper and more frequent, Bobby had to hide any sort of medication he had, he had to lock up the razors; rope was thrown out of the house.

He tried to call John, but either he didn’t answer or when he did he was ‘busy’.

Bobby didn’t know what John expected. Dean didn’t need medication, he didn’t need psychologists or therapists, sometimes Bobby doubted if Dean even needed food or air. He watched as Dean sat on the sofa, Dean didn’t want anything. “Dean what do you need?” Bobby asked. Dean turned around, he blinked, almost as if he wasn’t there, and sometimes he doubted the boy was. He just seemed to zone out, go somewhere else. Dean shrugged, before he got up. “Did he pick up?” Dean asked and Bobby shook his head.

Dean clenched his jaw.

For the first time since the boy had showed up Bobby saw fire, “I need to go home, Sammy’s waiting for me.”

Over the next few days Dean ate, he worked out, he went shooting, he went to school, he made friends but Bobby knew it was an act. It was a ploy to get home, to get home to Sammy. It seemed that it was all Dean thought about now, when John heard the good news he started to call frequently but Dean didn’t want john, he didn’t ask about the yellow eyed demon, or talk about recovery or even ask John why he hadn’t called when he needed him, all he said (rather loudly) was where’s Sammy. The moment Sammy came on, Dean relaxed. He started to talk and laugh. Bobby watched with fear, because it seemed Dean had found his own medication. He had found Sammy and that seemed to be all that mattered. Perhaps it wasn’t healthy, and Bobby sure as hell didn’t like it, but Dean needed it. Dean needed his Sammy.

When John picked his son up Dean didn’t even look at him, he ran towards his little brother and Sam ran towards him too. They hugged and Sam gripped his tightly, six months had seemed like an eternity. Dean tapped Sam’s nose with a massive grin, “I told you Sammy, I’m all better.” Sam grinned; he pulled out a little package from his pocket. “It’s not much but…” Dean opened it, and just starred. It was a picture, just an ordinary picture, of him and Sammy. There was no john, no bobby, no therapist breathing down Dean’s back, it was just them. He turned it around and on the back there was a messy message of _I’d miss you, Sammy._

“You girl” Dean laughed, messing up Sam’s hair.

Bobby and John stood on the patio. “He looks good” John noted. Bobby whacked the back of John’s head. “Hey!” John barked and Bobby didn’t apologize. “He is not good John, and he is not better. He knew the only way to get home to Sam was to act like he was okay, so he did. He hid under your nose long enough didn’t he?” Bobby sneered. John clenched his jaw, “Then why did you call me?” John raised an eyebrow. “You did this. You’ve made him so reliant on his baby brother that he has no chance of recovery without him. He will continue to cut, he will starve himself, he will make noose knots and he will not stop until Sam notices. You can’t save him this time” Bobby turned and went into his house. John could act as hard done by as he liked, Bobby had to watch Dean die before his eyes and John couldn’t take the time of day to see his little boy when he needed his father the most.

John walked towards the car, and nobody but Bobby noticed the note in Dean’s bedroom.

_I’m sorry Mum, I’ll see you soon._

In the impala not a single male noticed, Dean laughed and sung along to the rock tunes, Sam complained before getting into a play fight with his big brother and John smiled, his family was fine. Everything was fine, but a voice whispered in Dean’s mind _soon_ and the boy couldn’t help but agree.


End file.
